


found each other tonight

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Banter, Biting, Clubbing, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, First Meetings, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, Implied Age Gap, Inspired by Music, M/M, Modern Royalty, inspired by fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Noctis hits up one of his usual haunts to escape another day or week of stress and absurdly weighty expectations -- but this is his lucky night, because he finds a way to work it all off.(He maybe finds someone to want.)





	found each other tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Even if the actual soundtrack to this fic is an Utena club mix medley (parts [one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9nirtvUVdc) and [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMNTS4vFYdY)), the actual prompt is [this unexpected collaboration](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WP7duqy60h8).
> 
> Thanks to [crazyloststar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyloststar/pseuds/Crazyloststar) for turning me on to the BTS track!
> 
> And yes: this is a #smuturday fic :D

Too many voices on the air tonight -- the wind that whistles and slashes at his cheeks, icy-colder with each step, and the threat of rain that he thinks he can already hear, the striking drops already falling onto the buildings in the surrounding neighborhoods, and it’s only a matter of time before it all turns into a winter’s mess and so -- he’s happy to keep his head down, and to ignore the spreading wave of hush as he walks right past the long line snaking out into the turbulent weather of the night -- they’re all looking at him, he thinks, they all recognize the gold-and-silver chain that he wears on his person at all times, the gift he’s been wearing ever since his mother presented it to him.

He’d wanted to receive that chain. It had been the one thing that she and he had been collaborating on for years. A chain that stood for mastery, and the certain bone-deep heart-and-soul possession of a specific set of skills. He had admired his mother’s own chain from the moment that he realized what it stood for, and he’d nearly killed himself under her gimlet-eyed guidance, her sword-taught lessons, to earn every last link and the tiny roundels on each end. 

He hasn’t taken the chain off, since she’d bestowed it upon him -- he doesn’t regret a minute of the years, the pain, the hardship.

He does regret that the whole presentation had been televised live -- beamed to all the corners of Lucis and well past its borders -- and the event billed not as a graduation, but instead as some kind of esoteric royal ceremony, which is still the farthest thing from what it actually had been.

But Noctis can’t see himself taking the damn chain off -- and all he does is tuck more of its trailing lengths into his trouser-pockets, where he’s wearing it as an addition to the belt he’s wearing as part of tonight’s outfit. 

And he steps past the staring eyes in the line that leads up to the nightclub’s doors, and the bouncer -- stares at him, knowing, steel-line of her stern mouth. “Pass?”

Noctis only allows himself a small smirk. “Would you have let me in if I said I didn’t have one?”

She only shakes her head. Her dark-blonde hair, cut off just above her shoulders, shivers with the movement. “Not even if you were the Six themselves.”

“Funny, I don’t ever want to be them,” he says, and he rolls up one sleeve to expose his forearm to the bouncer’s hand-held torch -- he doesn’t see any beam of light, but she passes it above his skin and then that reveals the invisible ink of his temporary tattoo, in wide stylized lines. 

“Nice rose,” the bouncer says, and she pokes at one of the revealed thorn-shapes, and she pockets the torch and reaches to unlock the heavy velvet of the rope across the nightclub’s door.

“Thanks.”

And from the storm-laden sidewalk he passes into an utterly hushed corridor, short enough for him to cover in only a handful of steps, short enough that he’s already holding his hands out to push the other set of doors wide open -- warmth and plush velvet against his palms, against his fingers, and then -- through and into the next room.

He knows the black-draped corners, the walls festooned with fairy lights and the menacing crazy-rotating shapes of the strobes, the laser-light-show -- the air in this vast space is crisscrossed in beams of intense purple and orange, and here and there the wide lances of red that catch on -- costumes.

The dance floor, wall-to-wall packed even with midnight still more than an hour away: the red lights that catch on the details of cloaks and elaborate gloves, and here and there the spread of fantastic wings. Tattered skirts, ripped sleeves, lace tied into elaborate knots and scarves. Beads and wire in hairstyles in every color he can think of and some he’s never even considered before.

He chuckles, ruefully, in the corner that he’s staked out for himself, and he sort of wishes there was something he could do about his costume now: the chain, the elaborate jacket that he’d actually dug out of one of the storage rooms in the towering palace that he called home, the crisp brand-new shirt that he’d immediately wrecked with spatters of dark-red dye. Pinned-in long locks of bone-white hair, here and there to frame his face, accented with little wire-spirals shaped into five-pointed stars.

He hasn’t even bothered to do anything about the stubble that clings to his jaw, that frames his mouth in a just-barely-presentable smudge of shadow.

But even as plain as his outfit is compared to everyone else’s -- he’s happy when eyes slide off him and no one pays him much mind, not even to call him out, not even when nothing he’s wearing matches the still-visible chain around his waist -- he disappears, here, unmasked. Here he’s just one of the other revelers. Here he’s just one of the crowd, and no one looks his way when a track full of twisting choir-verses comes on, densely layered lines rising and weaving a kind of magic, telling a story.

And all he has to do is take a step forward -- he’s clear of the walls -- and he closes his eyes and hums hesitating along with the music as it falls into a bright clash of strings and the insistent hypnotic backbeat -- he flings his arms out to his sides, pivots smoothly on one foot -- and he’s dancing, a world of his own, a corner of his own, no one to see him, no one to critique him. 

Just the pure freedom of his forms -- block and parry, riposte and lunge.

Just the reckless energy of his steps -- shake of his shoulders, twist of his hips.

Flexion, all the muscles of him on the move, all the strange harmony of moving with one and only one intention, and that is -- to respond to the music.

Noctis dances, and the track seems to go on and on and on and he loses himself in the vivid visceral victory of it. Nary an edge of pain to limit him. Nary a judgmental eye to stop him. Just him and the music and -- he knows he’s moving out of his corner, he knows he’s venturing onto the strobe-slashed dance-floor itself by the press of bodies, the graceful duck-and-evade that he shares with the others who are already dancing -- somehow he knows how to stay out of everyone else’s way, the same way they all know how to stay out of his -- 

Flash of the lights, a momentary deafening beat of utter silence, utter stillness -- he blinks out of the trance of the song and he opens his eyes to the very center of the room, everyone else holding their breath around him -- every single one of them caught and pinned on the anticipation of the moment, waiting for the next beat, waiting for the next track.

Niggle of self-consciousness that snags him suddenly at the throat, like the thorns that he’s wearing in his temporary tattoo, that makes him clench his hands into fists and -- 

“Easy. Hey.”

Voice, the voice is coming from behind him. Low and graveled and sweet. Too quiet, even for this eternal everlasting hush -- 

Tension sings down Noctis’s nerves and then it all falls to pieces -- sudden shriek of a long loud sustained clash of cymbals and deafening drums, and a melodious scream -- it’s the key in the lock, it’s the cue to move, and there are hands on Noctis’s hips and the lean long presence that steps right up against his back. Words filtering through, even as the dance-floor explodes into frantic flight of hands and feet and legs, the fluttering protrusions of costumes and props, bodies on the move and it’s what he was doing earlier, multiplied tenfold and a hundredfold.

He’d been dancing like he’d been dueling with only his own shadow, earlier.

Now he’s in the middle of something very much like a brawl, and the laser-light show is tracing out hypnotic patterns over ecstatic faces, and -- 

“Dance with me?” asks the voice at his back.

What is it about that voice that makes him melt, Noctis thinks -- the last thought he can muster because the hands at his hips tighten, hold on firmly, and he lets himself stop.

Lets himself move -- nothing but the movement, nothing but the music, and he begins by falling back into the presence that’s propping him up -- he can feel the twist of the shoulders on the move, the easy stomp and shift of long legs. Heartbeat thudding against him, the heavy pulse in the gloved hand that’s skating up his flank, beating out of time with the music. 

That hand comes to rest over his heart -- and stays there, and there’s something strangely comforting about it, like it can be something he can ground himself on, even as he’s moving to the music, even as he’s molding himself to the person holding him here.

“Dance with me,” and he whispers the words back, nearly voiceless, nearly a plea.

The hands fall away from him in a sudden forceful gesture -- that spins him around and now he needs to open his eyes, he needs to see, who is this, who is dancing with him -- 

Beautiful, Noctis thinks, he’s dancing with someone beautiful. 

Slashes of electric-blue color in wild blond hair, spiked and tufted -- they catch in the lasers and glow. Dots in the same blue, scattered over the cheeks, randomly fluorescing along the curve of the jaw, the point of the chin. Constellation-pattern drawn on, radiating from the corner of the right eye, the crooked sickle-shape of it unmarred by fine lines.

Smile, easy, mocking, but not to wound -- mocking like he wants Noctis to be in on the joke that he must be hiding in the depths of his eyes. Spark of crystal-light, tiny but vivid, catching in the nostril stud. 

He lets his eyes move downwards, even as his body moves, entirely independent of his thoughts, entirely lost in the music. 

And he thinks he might recognize the costume that his partner’s wearing -- although the corset is an unexpected thing, and a wonder, since it cinches the otherwise loose shirt, since it goes so well with the short shorts, the whole crimson-leather deal reaching all the way down to the thigh-high boots.

Nothing about the outfit is dainty, not even the corset. 

Noctis smiles, and tilts his head, silently asking for permission.

“What?” is the word that he can see his partner mouthing, since there’s no point in trying to talk with the driving relentless music that still blurs out the writhing all around them.

“Let me,” he says, silent but clear, and he holds out his hand in a mockery of an invitation. 

The hand doesn’t stretch out very far -- if anything, the dance-floor’s gotten even more packed -- but it’s taken in a very warm grip and Noctis grins, yanks -- how he manages to twirl the other dancer he doesn’t know -- and the move ends with that lithe body pinned up right against him.

He’d been falling back into this person, when they’d started dancing together.

Now he’s deliberately bracing this -- boy -- just on his toes, just about unable to get his footing back.

“Ooh,” is what he hears, low amused. “Getting your own back?”

“If you’ll let me,” he says, enunciating.

Watching the boy’s mouth as he speaks again. “What happens if I don’t?”

He tries to hide the disappointment that twangs low in his gut. “Then -- I’ll let you go.”

Gloved hand that curves to his jaw, and he can’t help himself -- he turns his head and noses along the leather. Takes a deep breath of it and there’s something else layered into the scents of artificial smoke and hot dance-floor -- a scent like ocean-salt and fine ash.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Those words are clear, and they’re so close, and Noctis is not at all surprised when they’re followed up with a kiss -- that leaves him still, that leaves him shaken from the moment of impact.

It’s a kiss that silences everything else. A kiss like the stars aligning, rooting him to the spot as the world twists into something strange and new -- he closes his eyes and leans in, hand coming up to grip in the surprising softness of the boy’s hair.

How long they kiss, with the dancers jostling and clamoring all around, he can’t know: all he wants is that tongue in his mouth, those lips against his own -- tempting as the prospect might be of asking the boy to kiss him all over, he doesn’t want to end this kiss in favor of that -- 

Cannon-shot, the sudden shocking bang that jolts him -- and the boy -- out of their clinch.

He opens his eyes to darkness and a sweet rhythm of tinkling notes, edge of melody, like a storm and like a flurry of swords.

Opens his eyes to the boy’s hands gripping his chain, and a whisper: “You want to take this elsewhere, fine by me; you want to stay here, fine by me too.”

“What, so you can have your way with me?” he murmurs, grinning and slowly levering the boy back into stability, into standing on his own, though he doesn’t let him get that far. Not when he’s chasing the feeling of those corset-laces digging into him, the gorgeous tension of the grommets in their curves along the boy’s body.

“Not like you’re gonna object, are you?”

He laughs, softly, knowingly. “I could almost think you’re pretending you don’t know me.”

“I know you. But this isn’t what I’m interested in,” and there’s a sharp sweet yank on Noctis’s chain. “I don’t even know everything that this stands for, and I’m not here for that. 

“Like I said: I want to know _you_.”

Thrill that streaks along his nerves -- yes, he can feel caution, too, bubbling up, warning, beneath his heart. But the pull is too strong and he licks his way into another kiss, all dirty yearning now -- and the thrill can only grow, can only become stronger, when he feels the boy lean in and take over and leave him breathless -- and it’s only after that he says, “How do you want me?”

“Come on.”

The boy turns away, and Noctis follows -- he misses those hands on him already -- and then somehow they’re cutting a swift path through the dancing and the renewed shriek of the music, past the bar, past the DJ’s booth.

Noctis isn’t exactly a stranger to this nightclub anyway and so he knows he’s got to submit to the second security check -- he has to show the second invisible-ink tattoo, in the lines of a rapier, on his other arm -- what he’s not expecting is his dance partner laughing and baring his throat to the other set of guards.

The torch reveals not only the stylized rose in the boy’s neck but also the rapier-mark along his left clavicle.

Of all the places to wear those markings -- 

Noctis almost wants to hide the blush that he can feel, rising to his hairline, rising where he’s fairly sure anyone can spot it in the blotches on his cheeks, uneven and far too hot in his own skin.

But the boy laughs -- at? with? -- this second set of security personnel, before tugging Noctis back on track and into the warren of rooms in the back of the nightclub -- and he stops in the corridor, suddenly, blinking and -- he looks so young, Noctis thinks, and yet his eyes are shadowed with both something knowing and something strangely longing and lost. 

So he takes pity on the boy, hopes against hope that he remembers one of the rooms in this place -- and that it’s unoccupied, which it is, the door falling easily open when he grabs the doorknob and twists.

There’s nothing, really, in this room, nothing important or valuable or breakable: there’s just a bench, wide and sturdy and slatted, all of one stable piece that runs nearly the length of the longer wall. Color-changing lights in the ceiling, he remembers that too, and he reaches for the switch, and:

“You want to leave those on?”

“Yes,” he says. “Can I see you?”

“Yeah,” the boy laughs.

So Noctis cycles through the settings and -- settles on one bulb set to a steady soft gold.

The light picks out the blue-bright details on the boy as he settles onto the bench; it seems to sink, too, into the red of his outfit, making it -- and his skin, and his freckles -- seem to glow.

He can’t help but fall to his knees, right in the wide splay of those long legs. 

“Not going to lie, you’re fucking gorgeous right there,” he hears the boy say, and there’s no hint of laughter in those words: just something heavy, something good, that reaches right into Noctis and calms him, grounds him.

“And you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen in this club,” he returns, easily. “How have I never seen you here before?”

“I work backstage. Not here here,” the boy says, and then he’s shaking his head like that’s all he wants to say on the subject.

Fine by Noctis: the more they ignore the details (who the boy is, who _he_ is, when they’re not in this club), the more time they’ll have to actually do something -- interesting.

He watches the boy lick his lips and lean, gently, toward him. Reach out to touch him. Those gloves are still impossibly soft. “What do I call you, here? I mean, you have another name I can use?”

He shrugs, one-shouldered. “I don’t care. No titles, that’s all I ask.”

“Huh. That was easy. I was planning to feel embarrassed, a little. But -- Noct,” and the boy smiles, so close, so actually radiant. “That okay?”

He nods, once, so they’re clear. “And yours?”

Soft note of a chuckle. “Prom. That’s me.”

“Prom,” he says, trying the weight of the word on his tongue. Tasting it on the edges of his teeth. 

“When you say it, my name -- not my real name exactly, but you knew that -- anyway it sounds amazing,” he hears Prom say. 

He flashes him a grin. Teases: “Prom.”

Bright flash in those eyes. “Shit.”

Noctis eases closer, leans up, brushes his cheek against freckles. “Kiss me. Like you were doing earlier.”

“You liked being led,” Prom is saying -- and before he can gather the breath to answer, there’s a sharp nip to the corner of his mouth and Noctis is falling headlong into that kiss. The proprietary sweep of Prom’s tongue against his. Hand in his hair, pulling his head back -- he arches willingly into that hold and then Prom bites at him again, rough now against his bottom lip and Noctis hisses in a breath.

Mutters, in the next instant, “Please -- ”

“Careful what you wish for, Noct.”

Prom breaks the kiss -- Noctis’s eyes fly open at the first scrape of teeth and tongue against his throat and he actually feels it, when his nerves go into overload, when he shivers through the head-rush. The long-simmering ache in his groin that explodes into the only other point of focus in this little world of four walls and four corners -- the boy who’s pushing his collars aside, who’s sucking a loud wet kiss into the point just between his neck and his shoulder and Noctis groans, sharp short needy sound.

Long hot stroke of tongue against his skin, followed by teeth.

“K-keep going,” he growls, helplessly, fighting upwards into that touch now, and he wants that bruise in a way he can’t even describe: wants that impact, that mark. Wants to feel every single second of this, whatever this is, however this plays out.

Prom bites down harder and Noctis hisses out a breath, nearly imagines his own blood on his skin -- nearly thinks there might be red stains on Prom’s teeth when he pulls away, when the roar in his head quiets down and he can actually see Prom again -- vivid flush and his eyes gone dark -- blue-violet rims around blown-out pupils. 

“Holy shit you’re good, you look so fucking good,” he hears Prom say, and he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do -- fortunately those gloved hands land on his shoulders and apply pressure, and Noctis goes where he’s placed, flat on his back on the floor and -- he arches up, sharply, groan that rattles in his chest as Prom comes off the bench, as Prom straddles him and settles right in. 

He only has to glance at those red shorts to see the jut of Prom’s cock, and he has to swallow, hard, and try not to buck up against him.

He tries to say, “What do you want?” but the words come out tellingly rough, tellingly hoarse, like he’s already been shouting for hours and hours.

“I could get off just on you like this but -- big believer in sharing, me, I mean I wanna make sure you’re good, too,” and Prom’s words are drowned out once again as Noctis shakes, and reaches for his own buttons with unsteady hands.

“Yeah, that’s -- that’s something you can do,” Prom is saying, when he manages to open his shirt down to his belly -- he passes the heel of his hand over his own erection, just to feel the delicious pressure, just so he can drown in his need once again and then come back up for air -- just enough to start undoing his flies --

Prom’s hand clamping around his wrist, stilling him. “No, that’s mine, I do that, not you.”

“Please?”

“Fuck,” and Prom is laughing, and Noctis grins and -- arches up with a cry, as his cock is freed from the damp spot he’s been making in his briefs, from the confines of belt and zipper and too-tight trousers. 

Prom’s hand curls around him, gripping and not moving at all, except for -- Noctis thinks he’s not imagining the flex of those fingers, the minute squeeze-and-release of Prom holding -- handling -- his cock.

“Look at me.”

He does, and he’s treated to a show, because Prom might be releasing him, might be pulling back, but he’s pushing himself up to stand and he’s red and glorious and towering, his hands moving at the band of his own shorts and he’s pushing everything down and away -- just a little -- just enough to expose himself.

He’s wearing -- lace -- beneath the red leather -- lace and a dark spot and inked lines curling around his right thigh, all the way up to the lower edge of his ribcage.

And Noctis can’t take his eyes off the flex of those muscles beneath Prom’s skin, the almost-movement of the actual tattoo, as he lowers himself back down -- he’s on his knees, he’s all along Noctis’s front -- 

“Prom!” And he can’t help but grab on to Prom’s ass -- can’t help but arch into him, where they’re perfectly aligned -- chests and stomachs and cocks pushing against each other, on labored breaths, the incredible heat of Prom’s skin.

“Sssh, I got you” -- reassuring, but also -- Noctis groans and rocks his hips upward again, and Prom is meeting him with the downstroke, rutting viciously into him -- “Noct?”

“Yeah,” and he can barely form the word or get it out, with the thump of his blood in his veins, with the weight of Prom that he can’t get enough of.

“Hand.”

He can feel the shaking all down his arm as he figures out the command -- as he gets his hand between their meshed bodies -- his cock is a familiar weight in his hand and he wants to learn the weight of Prom’s, the shape of it, the silky hard heat of it -- 

“Kiss me.”

And Prom’s smiling at him, sharp and needy and also strangely kind, strangely gentle -- he wishes he could taste that on his tongue and all he can do is open his mouth, is kiss him.

Tug, sharp, on the chain.

Shit, he’s almost forgotten he’s still wearing it and -- Prom seems to have found it -- 

Another tug, sharper, the links digging almost painfully into Noctis’s skin and he gasps, once, “Fuck!”

“Move. Slowly,” he hears Prom whisper, right in the hollow of his throat, right in the throb of the bruise he’d raised -- 

So he does, and it’s sort of a dance, too, even when the only music is the low laughter of Prom, vibrating against his skin -- beat of their bodies on the move, give and take, pushing and pushing -- there’s a rhythm in him, in them, as he jacks himself and Prom off at the same time --

Every time he speeds up Prom tugs on his chain and growls, “Slow.”

Eventually he hisses back: “Can’t -- too good -- please -- ”

“Not when you say. When _I_ do.” Gulp, sharp, and a huff of laughter. “Okay? You good?”

When had he closed his eyes? But he’s looking up into Prom’s face again. 

And -- the question -- what was the question? He’s too busy burning up, too lost in the grind of their bodies. “Prom don’t stop.”

“’S what I like to hear, Noct, keep going.” 

Kitten-lick, swirling, heavy pressure against his throat.

Noctis shudders. “More -- more please more -- ”

“Y-yeah,” and it’s the stutter that does Noctis in -- he punishes himself, sets the slowest heaviest pace he can muster when all his nerves are clamoring for _more_ , for _fast_ \--

Prom gasps, sharply, and freezes -- comes with a strangled shout -- the sound rings in Noctis’s ears and coming is a relief, is a gift, blanking him out. Obliterating him and all his thoughts and all he knows is Prom, shaking -- 

How long before he blinks, before he knows he’s shivering in the aftermath, he can’t tell: all he knows is the smile that greets him. Not shy, not diffident, not regretful -- just the same forthright one he’s been seeing all night long.

“You okay? You passed out for a bit there.” Prom sounds dazed, and that’s a good thing, too, Noctis thinks.

“I’m good,” he says, and he opens his hand, sticky and cooling and clammy, and turns it palm up on the floor, to the side. Nowhere to wipe it clean, anyhow; he’ll just have to bear it. 

“You?” he asks.

“I’m not good,” and then Prom is laughing some more. “I’m great.”

“Shit you scared me,” Noctis laughs.

“Sorry not sorry.”

Some kind of impulse makes him turn his head, then, and kiss Prom’s temple. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” Prom’s weight, moving, levering off him, and he smiles up into smeared blue and tousled blond. 

“I need to ask you a question,” he says, as gently as he can, so he doesn’t sound needy. 

“Funny,” is the response, after a long pause. “I had one too. Question, I mean.”

“Ask,” he says, and swallows. “Ask me.”

“I really want to do that again so can we?” But the way Prom says it, the question falls out nearly as one entire long word -- Noctis has to work, a little, to decipher the whole thing.

When he does, he grins. “Now now? Not sure about that. Later? How about -- fuck yes.”

“Great!” 

Maybe he can hear relief in Prom’s laughter, too -- relief, in this room, in this night, in the unexpectedness of everything -- even the way that Prom tugs, again, on the chain he’s wearing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
